i. Trouble

Such pain in my father’s eyes, his
     is the same as in mine—portraits
     in icy hallways, what passage
     of time a crime tastes of, poets
     accustomed to painting war pout
     more when firing off words pored out

     like stigmatic tears, blood and beer
     spilled into bleaker puddles of
     weak-kneed oblivion; our sight
     rows past each other, blanking one
     another as we look toward
     more baggage than a son should have

     to manage, a curse we both can
     handle, throwing off brilliance just
     to show all the unkind masses
     it’s not our darkness but their clouds
     of murderous crows calling out
     and calling off explanations

     of this secret they’ll never know;
     his biggest champion showing
     no remorse, out burning bridges,
     poisoning rivers, slamming doors,
     blowing cocks as I go, blowing
     up business, though, which he’d delight

     to know, blowing out explicit
     kisses to wet the wax faces
     of figures whose figureless lips
     challenge shadows to a duel
     their own dim-witted nature lets
     burn them with candles of blindness—

     futility I find fits those
     idiots more than geniuses,
     since it’s we who have to exist
     alongside such beasts, but who knows
     if this bloodline’s pure since I’m more
     often unsure what I’m here for.

                    ii. With a Capital ‘B’

Poets, who are such men of words,
     always have a fascination
     with men of action, but words are
     a form of action, our passion
     dictating for us the who and
     the what, the where we put it in

     and when They’re wanting love, We walk;
     often I’ve thought of moments odds
     let me down, wide genocidal
     statistics pressing against me,
     marching barrel-chested, rebels
     double-fisting god out of wealth

     and bone, burning holes in pockets,
     hearths turned to wombs where reddest sins
     and neglected taxes glow, drenched
     flesh exchanged at midnight rates for
     palms and seaside homes, flooding out
     fate—how jerks like me postdated

     fame and must now deliver it,
     babe, lest I waste it and this wealth
     of talent creates agony
     as piercing or worse than his death
     did, since I know dad would have had
     life if he had been as prudent;

     his name is mistaken for mine,
     unuttered like some nameless crime
     tiptoeing through thick crowds of poor,
     inattentive lovers, slaves for
     restless desire who fight, conquer
     every night; among them I

     cry blinding martyrdom, seeking
     to find a husband in a friend,
     in my enemies rippled sheets
     of immortality, folded
     contradictions prolonged mourning
     only emboldens—I seek him.